The Country House
by xfsox
Summary: Sequel to The Circular Room. Fallout, angst and discovering if a mystery can save your soul. UPDATED 3.26.10
1. Chapter 1

The Country House (sequel to The Circular Room)

Chapter One

xXx

_*Watson's POV*_

April had been spreading its gloom over London for weeks. Rain, violent at times, along with thick clouds on better days were all we could expect from this, the cruelest of months.

My leg ached, my head hurt and I was exhausted long before Holmes began to complain. Even the criminals had been discouraged by the bleak weather, leaving us without a single case to follow, putting Holmes into one of the blackest of his 'black moods'. More often than not, he disappeared into his study without a word and I didn't see him for days at a time. Nor did I seek him out as I was having certain problems of my own.

Sleep, or more precisely, the lack of it.

Ever since my rescue from Moriarty's prison, nightly rest had become elusive. At first, I attributed it to the exuberance of finally being safe at home, the long hours it took to drift off into a much too short slumber but then the nights took on a darker hue and the sleep I yearned for turned into fitful bouts of nightmares, each one beginning where the last one ended, all of them variations of the same scene.

I was back in that damned room. No doors, no windows and Moriarty sitting across from me, smiling and telling me that this time - _this time_ - there would be no escape and I would pay a terrible price for denying him. Sometimes there would be smoke, a repeat of the fire that almost killed myself and Holmes and sometimes ...

Sometimes the walls would spin and collapse upon me, closing in until I woke up feeling as if I were suffocating. Occasionally the dreams were so real, I found myself opening a window and leaning my head on the sill, gasping for air.

Night after night it went on and refused to stop. Nothing helped; not warm baths, nor milk or ceasing my tea at a certain time. I took long walks through the endless damp, trying to exhaust myself and this did little more than make my leg throb horribly which only added to my frustrations.

After an entire week had passed without a satisfying night of rest, I desperately reached into my bag and dosed myself with a tincture of laudanum, which succeeded in knocking me unconscious for a few hours but I awoke as unrefreshed as if I'd never laid down at all.

Needless to say my temper suffered as much as my body during this time. I tried to not let it get the better of me but everything irritated me, like nails upon a chalkboard. Every clink of china from the kitchen, every note from Holmes' violin, even the poor dog's snoring seemed to drive me into an unreasonable state of anger.

My treatment of patients suffered and I was forced to temporarily suspend my practice, lest I accidentally injure one of them while in this virtually incapacitated state.

To say I was miserable would be to put it lightly.

Unfortunately, Holmes didn't seem much better off than myself. Instead of exhausted, he was agitated, pacing and speaking too quickly, too often. He played incessantly on his instrument, tapped his fingers and snapped books open and shut, staring off in the distance as if unaware of what he was doing.

He and I, at that moment in time, were the worst of all possible combinations. "You're driving me mad," I told him one day, barely able to keep my fists from clenching as he tapped and paced and played. "Can you not relax for one moment?"

"I should ask the same of you," Holmes replied, frowning. "You're haunting these rooms like a ghost. When was the last time you've slept?"

Already angered, my fingers curled against my palms. "Perhaps it was the last time you've deigned to grace these apartments with some peace and quiet. God knows when that was."

Throwing himself into his chair, he snorted and started playing away on the violin. Tuneless, awful scratches and I swore to heaven that I would end up killing either him or myself or us both if he didn't stop right there and then.

I raised my voice loudly. "For God's sake, Holmes! Have you no courtesy? Stop that!"

With a violent gesture, he threw the bow across the room. "Have you any courtesy? I live here as well! It's bad enough that we are trapped in here with this blasted weather but now I must crawl around my own home and tiptoe past you like a child hoping to avoid a wretched parent. It's intolerable!"

"You are a damned child!" I yelled back. "As for intolerable, there's a mirror. Go to it and view the perfect definition of the word!"

Dropping the violin, Holmes stalked off to his desk and removed his Morocco case, the one that held his syringes and drugs of varying strengths. Defiantly, he tied the tourniquet around his upper arm, knowing full well how much I despised seeing such a blatant display of self-abuse.

"Oh, that's good," I snarled. "Very good, Holmes. You've found yourself yet another ridiculous way to prove you're incapable of mature discourse. Yet to find any emotion that can't be drowned by your needles, eh?"

With a careless shrug, he filled the syringe, almost to the top. "Maybe you should get yourself a needle, Watson. You seem rather out of sorts."

"Only because you make me so," I replied, rising and limping past him, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to throw the case, the needle and him out the window. "I'd wish you a good-night but I know you don't believe in such maudlin salutations. Not that you'll be sleeping for the next three days anyway, nor will anyone else within listening distance."

"Good-night, Watson," he called after me as I stormed out. "Sweet dreams."

I slammed the door in my wake. "Go to hell."

Once in the hallway, I paused a moment to collect myself. Almost immediately, I regretted my anger but as is so often the case, I was still too annoyed to go back and try to make it up. I needed to rest, even if I couldn't sleep and perhaps we could sort things out in the morning.

With a groan, I lay down on my bed, closing my eyes and wishing for a miraculous bout of sleep without dreams. Hours passed and I had achieved a very light doze when I heard a crash in Holmes' study.

It wasn't one of his ordinary crashes, the careless dropping of a glass or overturning of a chair, this sounded like a body hitting the ground and I immediately bolted upright, forcing myself to my feet. "Holmes!" I called. "Are you all right?"

No answer. Exhaustion forgotten, I ran into the study, horrified to see Holmes lying on the floor, his entire body shaking and writhing. There was the smell of vomit in the air and his pupils were dilated to the point where there was little iris left.

"For the love of God," I cried, falling clumsily to my knees and cradling his head on my lap. "Holmes, you've taken too much."

His lips were shaking so badly, he had trouble forming the words. "I ... thought ... I ... measured it."

His pulse was trip-hammering beneath the skin and for a moment, I was seriously afraid he'd have a stroke or heart attack right in my arms. I couldn't find it in me to berate him, I only wanted to make sure he got out of this alive. "I'm going to get you a sedative. We have to lower your heart rate. Here, get up and try not to move too much." Groaning, I lifted him into a sitting position. "Try to breathe steadily, I'll be right back."

Rummaging through my supplies I found a diluted opiate that was mild enough to counteract the cocaine without causing greater harm. It wouldn't make him feel much better, but it would probably save his life. I filled the syringe as I limped back into his room, cursing beneath my breath.

By the time I'd found a good vein, my hands were shaking nearly as badly as his. "Hold still if you can. I want to do this without killing you."

"Might be a kindness," he rattled out. "I'm sorry, Watson."

"Be quiet and hold still," I ordered, relieved when the injection proceeded without too much trouble. "There. You should feel less like death in a moment." With a sigh, I sat down hard on the floor, utterly drained. Outside, lightning flashed and the rain beat its merciless rhythm against the windows. "What a damnable night this is."

Slowly, his breathing evened out. "I agree." Pulling his knees to his chest, he curled himself over them. "Again, I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," I said, dragging myself over to sit next to him. With a sigh, I reached over to rub his still-trembling shoulders. "We're not ourselves these days."

"Moriarty," he murmured as if that one word explained everything.

"I want to disagree, but ..." I exhaled noisily. "I can't sleep, Holmes. My dreams, they are too terrible still."

"At least yours are dreams," he replied. "There's not a waking hour that I'm free from thoughts of him and what I've ..." Holmes paused, the little color in his cheeks draining away completely. "I wish there was some way to escape all this."

"I thought we'd escaped already," I sighed. "I guess I was mistaken."

Holmes shut his eyes and tucked his head further down against his knees. "Maybe tomorrow."

With a wry smile, I shook my head. "There is still rain in the forecast for tomorrow. And the day after, I'm afraid. As for our nightmares, a few hours won't change them."

"Then we'll leave them behind. I know a country house, three hours north. Enough to escape the rain which is coming from the south. The landlord is a good cook, the area is quiet and if we must be stagnant, at least it will be in the fresh air. What do you think?" He looked at me beseechingly. "Anything is better than this."

I peered at him, his pale cheeks and dull eyes and nodded. "I'm not too busy for a trip. Are you sure that's what you want to do?"

He nodded shakily. Against my protests, Holmes wavered to his feet and retrieved the Morocco case. He didn't hesitate before tossing it to me. "Here is my peace offering, Watson. Keep it and come with me to the country. We'll find better ways to 'drown our emotions', to use your own colorful phrasing. Perhaps we'll return with clearer minds."

Turning the leather case over in my hands, I wondered how at such a light thing could be the source of so many sorrows. "I'll begin packing then. As for you, you rest for the time being. I'll help you gather your things in the morning. I say this as your doctor."

His lips curled into a watery smile. "What does my friend say?"

"Your friend says you're a complete ass but he loves you regardless. Now go lie down."

With a tired laugh, he obeyed and I left the room, trembling from tiredness. Maybe a change of scenery would banish my terrors.

Maybe it could help Holmes as well.

xXx

_*Holmes POV*_

Accidents weren't my usual forte. I was well-versed in the dosages of the drugs I used for recreation but there was something evil in the air, a lingering presence in these apartments that neither myself nor Watson could shake.

Maybe the overdose wasn't an accident to my unconscious self. I was loathe to admit such folly, but I couldn't rule it out as a possibility.

I was haunted and there was no escaping this fact. Not by my poor, sleepless friend who still had enough patience to care for me when he should have abandoned me weeks ago, but by my own actions and thoughts during the time of Watson's incarceration.

By the thoughts I was having at that moment, every minute of every day. About finding Moriarty, killing him and sticking that damned jewel in his mouth for the Yard to find.

I was consumed. With anger and shame and more anger that Watson was ill from fear and the only way I believed our pain could be relieved was by murder. If I could only find the bastard, then ...

It's why I had to go. I needed to find my center again. London had too many temptations, even while drowned in rain. I needed sunlight and air and my mind to properly realign itself before I lost my bearings entirely.

I needed ... something. Something that wasn't found in a Morocco case.

Perhaps I could find it far away from the specter that was following me wherever I went.

xXx

continued in Chapter Two

_A/N: This is more a fallout piece than an outright adventure. There will be a mystery to contend with though, as well as much angst. Thanks, as always, for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

The Country House (sequel to The Circular Room)

Chapter Two

xXx

Mrs. Hudson kindly helped me pack both my own and Holmes' valises the next morning, even wrapping us sandwiches for the trip. Truth be told, she didn't look too sorry to see us go nor did Gladstone, who'd taken to cringing when I came into a room which served as a reminder of just how foul my temper had turned.

I made sure to pet and make much of him before I left and with an embrace to Mrs. Hudson, Holmes and I were off, the hired carriage arriving at nine sharp.

The constant rain made it rough going for the first hour but once we left the most congested part of the city, the clouds parted and I could see blue sky struggling to show itself.

It was a welcome sight. Leaning back against the leather, I relaxed while Holmes stared out the window, his mouth set into a tight line. He was still not completely recovered from the events of the previous evening, his slim hands fluttering with fine tremors and I couldn't help but think he was starting to regret giving his syringe case over to me in the heat of the moment.

_Too bad, my friend_ I thought, closing my eyes and dozing for the rest of the journey. We arrived at half past noon and the landlord met us by the road, two young boys at his side, holding their hands out for our bags. "Gentlemen!" he called, opening the carriage door and shaking Holmes' hand with more vigor than Holmes probably liked. "It's good to see you. Your room is ready as well is lunch. Come! Follow me."

Holmes glanced at me with an apologetic shrug. "I'd forgotten how enthusiastic Mr. Reynolds is. It's been a few years."

"As long as he lets me rest, I don't care what he does," I said, rubbing my aching eyes. We stepped down the from the carriage and entered the house.

It was a nice home, broader and warmer than our apartments on Baker Street and filled with all the little touches of the country as well as delicious smells coming in from the kitchen. They were obviously used to having guests and I watched with interest as maids and other helpers ran this way and that, inspired by our arrival.

The stairs were just a single, short flight up, which pleased me and my bad leg immensely. The room was rather cozy, with two beds on opposite ends, multiple dressers and, to Holmes obvious disgust, there was lace everywhere, from the curtains to doilies covering almost every inch of every wooden top. The linens were of the most _interesting_ shades of pastel, also trimmed with lace as well as velvet fringes.

It was as different from our rooms on Baker Street as could be.

"Here you are," Reynolds said, hustling the two lads with our luggage inside. He squeezed Holmes' shoulder heartily which made Holmes wince even more. "See you downstairs, my friend. Don't be late or else it'll be cold."

I nodded to Reynolds as he left and looked to Holmes who was still pulling a horrified face. "Why, darling. This room is simply divine," I chuckled, unable to contain my amusement.

Holmes glowered at me before tossing his hat onto one of the beds. "I expressly asked for the less trullish suite."

"Trullish?" Now I laughed heartily. "He probably had no idea what you were talking about. Buck up, old cock. It's a room, it's clean and I don't plan on doing anything here but sleeping until I can't sleep anymore." I lay down on my bed, tucking my hands beneath my head. "The weather is better here. We can go for a walk later, after lunch."

"Hmmm." Holmes stuffed the entire contents of his valise on the first drawer he could reach and smacked his hands together as if to say "that's that." He removed his coat with greater care than usual, hanging it on one of the hooks nailed to the wall for that purpose.

I watched this with curiosity as Holmes was never that peculiar where his coat landed once removed but I chalked it up to nothing more than new behavior in a different setting. "What are your fondest wishes for the next few days?" I asked.

He put his violin atop the dresser, brushing imaginary dust from its case. "Sunlight, I suppose. Quiet for you, amnesia for me. Perhaps a rock falling from some high ledge will suffice."

"Holmes ..." I sighed, but let it go. With a groan, I got up and nudged his arm. "First one to lunch gets the other's dessert. Come on."

"It's probably a baked piece of lace," he groused, but followed me downstairs anyway.

xXx

Lunch was excellent, if different from what we were used to. The food was heartier out there in the country with many more greens and I delighted in piling as many 'foul weeds', as Holmes called them, on his plate as possible.

He ate well enough, as did I and we took our after-dinner smoke outdoors where it was cloudy but fair. There were pretty lanes and houses dotting the countryside and inside of me, something unclenched, letting go part of its dark grip on my heart.

Holmes looked better than he did at arrival, his dark glasses on, riding crop in hand and the pipe between his lips. We walked silently down the lane, examining the fields and he began to point out various plants to me. I listened with interest, but he stopped speaking when we came within a short distance of a small house down one of the far lanes. "Do you hear that, Watson?"

I strained my ears. There was a faint sound, but I couldn't distinguish what exactly it was. "A tiny bit."

"Come on, let's go get a better listen," he said, tugging on my arm and I followed, not sure what he was talking about until the sound became clearer.

It was the playing of a violin.

But not playing as I was used to it, living with Holmes. I had no idea what the song was but it was the most mournful tune I'd heard in my life, dredging minor notes followed by heartbreaking high trills and it ended as suddenly as it began, as if the player no longer had the will to continue.

"Interesting," Holmes whispered. "A very small hand was playing that violin, Watson. Did you hear how the notes were just the slightest bit sharp, in uniform measure? The fingers are too short for the instrument, but the reach was almost good enough. The strings weren't pressed down all the way, so the hand is delicate. A female child, age eleven, perhaps?"

I frowned. "That was a rather unhappy tune for such a young lady to be playing."

"Very unhappy." Holmes sniffed and pushed his glasses up. "Ah, well. So goes life, Watson. Sorrow comes in all shapes and sizes. Best pushed aside with work, I say. Not that there's work to be found out here. Come on, there are some interesting trees by the brook I'd like to show you."

It was just like Holmes to shove aside the sadness of other human beings in pursuit of less emotional pastimes. However, I couldn't help but take a long look at the drab cottage and wonder what might be going on inside its faceless walls.

In the end, Holmes was right. This gray world was full of injustice and sorrow and not all of it could ever be rectified. With a sigh, I turned away from the house to follow Holmes who was already halfway down the lane, swinging his riding crop with a careless air.

Strange how even his callousness could sometimes make me grin.

xXx

Dinner was a huge affair, all biscuits, potatoes and roast followed by large glasses of brandy. I was nearly nodding off at the table, only half-listening to the landlord's wife talk about a string of house burglaries that had been taking place through the hamlet over the past two weeks.

Holmes looked even less interested. "I'm sure the local constables will find the culprit by the next winter." He paused for a beat. "Of the new century."

I drained the brandy glass and shoved away from the table wondering if my pants would fit by holiday's end. "I'm going to bed," I said, yawning. "See you tomorrow."

Holmes smiled at me. "Sweet dreams. And I mean it this time."

"Go to hell," I joked, patting him on the shoulder before heading upstairs. So exhausted was I that I made the mistake of lying down fully clothed - just for a moment, of course - and fell immediately into a deep slumber.

It might have been the absolute worst thing I could have done.

_"Do you think it's easy to run off with the property of kings?"_

_I'm in the room again. At the table and there are a pile of newspapers surrounding me, the details of too many crimes to count. The walls spin, I cannot breathe and the one who sits across from me is familiar and terrible and not who I am expecting._

_It's not Moriarty. _

_It's Sherlock Holmes. _

_Wearing jeweled pins that glitter like poison, his hands are bloody. He has mad eyes and I am gasping for air, trying to speak. "My student as well as my teacher." He waves his dripping hand (this is not real) through the air, making the blood splatter everywhere. "That's what you are. Who do you think did all this?"_

_It's not real. I don't want it to be real and I cannot breathe._

_He grasps my chin with his (thisisnotreal) gore-covered fingers. I can't escape. "Do you want to take a wager, Watson?"_

_"No." I need air._

_"There is my shadow. You will always walk beneath it."_

_This is not happening. This is not real._

_Holmes lets go and smiles at me. There are spiders in his mouth. "We aren't that different, you know. Myself and he. In fact, we are almost exactly alike."_

_No and no. This is not ..._

With my mouth opened in a silent scream, I bolted upright. My unfamiliar surroundings frightened me enough to slide from the bed and desperately feel through the darkness toward a sliver of light I assumed was the door.

Thank God, the hallway was still lit. Shaking badly, I climbed down the stairs, holding onto the banister for dear life. I hadn't even taken off my shoes before falling asleep so it was easy to step outside and limp down the road, a sliver of moon in the sky lighting my way just enough to make the night eerie, but bearable.

I had no idea how long or how far I'd wandered but soon I heard it again, the strange violin.

Such terrible, sorrowful music and a better accompaniment to a nightmare was never heard. I stood outside the cottage walls, entranced, the air chill over my half-covered arms. Bracing myself against the wooden fence, I closed my eyes and listened.

I breathed and tried to understand what was real and what was not for I was no longer sure.

xXx

continued in Chapter Three

_A/N: You guys rock, as always. I love your thoughts and reviews. Thank you!_


	3. Chapter 3

The Country House (sequel to The Circular Room)

Chapter Three

xXx

_*Holmes POV*_

I'd left him alone for only three hours.

All I'd done was smoke my pipe by the back door after a few brandies, examining the stars, so much brighter out there in the country away from the artificial lights of London. I was sure Watson would be in bed, deep asleep. I was quite positive this was so, any alternative hadn't even crossed my mind.

But he wasn't in bed. His nightclothes weren't even touched. The linens were rumpled but he wasn't there and I found it hard to think through the hot panic that invaded my senses. For someone to accost him out here in the middle of nowhere would be insanity but I couldn't help the cold dread that seeped through me at the possibility.

It took me a few moments to regain my equilibrium, a few minutes that were far too long. I'd seen so many cases during the course of my work; robbery, murder, even kidnapping. In theory I should have fallen easily into old habits of observation and deduction with the same cool detachment I'd always shown, but the wounds from our previous misadventure were too fresh in my heart and my mind paid the price for it.

Inhaling forcefully, I stepped back and examined the room. No signs of a struggle, yet a few small items had been knocked to the floor, speaking of Watson getting up suddenly and feeling his way through unfamiliar surroundings.

This told me that he'd awakened distressed, most likely from one of the nightmares he'd been complaining of. Which meant that if he wasn't in the house, he had likely taken a walk to clear his head from the images that haunted him.

Closing my eyes, I shook away a shiver of relief before setting out to find where Watson had wandered to.

That, it seemed, was the easy part. He hadn't been here before so he no doubt set down the same path we'd traversed during our afternoon walk. I saw some fresh footprints in the gravel - Watson's shoe size - and increased my speed. It was chill outside and wandering around in his coat sleeves would do him no good.

It was by the house that had so fascinated him earlier in the day that I finally saw him, sitting atop the sparse grass by the fence, his head drooping against the wood, fast asleep. I quietly took a seat beside him, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat, breaking at the sad sight of him.

"My poor Watson," I whispered. "How I wish I could take this burden away from you."

He stirred at the sound of my voice and I straightened up, putting my pipe between my lips and affecting my usual carelessness. "Holmes?"

"I thought you might like the country but not this much, dear fellow," I said as brightly as I could manage. "Even the residents usually sleep indoors."

He rubbed his eyes and sat up with a groan. "Blast it. Sorry. I ..."

"No need to say any more," I quickly interjected. I rose and held a hand out to him which he took, his bad leg already stiff from the awkward position he'd been sleeping in. With a heave, I brought him to his feet and brushed some of the debris away from his shirt. "My goodness, you're a messy Mother Hen. Keep this up and I'll have to build you a nest."

He arched his no-doubt sore back with a wince. "How did you find me?"

I laughed. "Dear Watson, if I couldn't find _you_ out here then I would be the most utterly hapless detective in the world. Lestrade would have ample reason to fire me."

With a non-committal noise, Watson took my offered arm and we walked slowly back to the inn, making sure he didn't stumble without the use of his cane. He seemed hesitant to return to the bedroom so I retrieved a blanket for him and helped him settle on one of the downstairs couches which seemed to suit him better.

Eventually, he fell into a wretched, fitful sleep. I myself couldn't even close my eyes, so badly had this minor adventure confounded and discomforted me. Not surprisingly, I suddenly yearned for my little case and the numbing agents I had hidden inside, but I'd made Watson a promise before we left that I would abandon such pursuits, at least for the time being.

I suppose it was the least I could do for the poor man, but good intentions often have a way of misguiding us. Knowing my syringes were in his doctor's case upstairs didn't help matters much and I eventually found myself gripping the arms of the chair, forcing into myself a resolve I didn't particularly feel.

But looking at Watson helped. If he could bear this, then so could I.

We would bear it together.

xXx

_*Watson's POV*_

Fortune smiled on us the next morning with bright, pleasant weather. I woke up on the downstairs's settee as the sun streamed into the drawing room. Myself and Holmes hadn't seen sunlight in so long, it was hard to feel resentful about being woken up at such an early hour.

Holmes suggested we take our breakfast outdoors in the open air and I readily agreed.

The landlord's wife was an easy-going hostess and packed us bread, fruit and coffee before telling us she and the rest of the house were going to church as was their custom, but that they'd leave the doors open for us in case of return.

We thanked her and headed in the opposite direction from the day before, much to my relief. Settling in a grassy area atop a blanket Holmes had appropriated for the purpose, we drank our coffee and ate in companionable silence for the better part of half an hour.

Still tired, I lay back on the blanket, using my arm to shield my eyes against the blessed sun. "I wonder if Mrs. Hudson misses us."

Holmes snorted in a most unbecoming fashion. "She misses you."

"Speaking of missing ..." I started, then hesitated. There were still so many things for us to discuss and it was hard to know where to begin but it was better then than never. "Did you ever tell her what had happened? You know, when I was gone?"

"No," Holmes replied matter-of-factly. "But I think she knew that something unpleasant was going on."

"How?" I asked, turning to look at him.

His mouth twitched, a very strange sight for me to witness considering the great control he usual held over himself. "That's an odd question, Watson. What are you getting at?"

"I want to know what happened while I was gone, that's all," I said carefully. "As any man might, who has been forcibly kept away from his home."

"Why? What did _he_ insinuate was going on?" Holmes leveraged himself up and put his back to a tree, crossing his legs in a somewhat defiant gesture. "Did he tell you I was rampaging through London with a loaded shotgun as I searched for you or throttled innocent bystanders while Lestrade looked in the other direction? Is that what _he_ implied, Watson?"

_He_. That was, I suppose, our new name for Moriarty. "No. Besides, I didn't believe much of what he said anyway."

"You did believe some of it though, did you not?"

And so I was cornered. "Holmes, there was a matter of a certain ... item."

Holmes shifted abruptly, his mouth set into a hard line. He scratched his arm with an almost violent gesture, as if there was something crawling over it. "A certain item. The one I stole, is that what you're speaking of?"

I didn't lower my gaze. "Yes."

"A small price to pay for your life. The Irish won't miss it, neither will the monarchy. They can commission a new one if it bothers them that much."

"You know that's not the point, Holmes."

"Then what is the point, dear Watson?" he growled, ripping away his dark glasses and glaring at me. "Is this yet another warning against damning my immortal soul, which, I might remind you is a part of my entity that I have absolutely no belief in? Have I committed the greatest treason which is to do the wrong thing for the right reason? Or is there something else you are about to _insinuate_? Tell me, John. For I should very much like to hear your opinions on these pressing matters, these actions that you admittedly know nothing about. Go on, tell me!"

At that moment he looked very much like the man in my nightmares and without thinking, I shrank away from him in fear. "Perhaps we should go back," I said quietly. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Agitated, he scratched at his arms again and rose. "Nor I you," he replied coldly and in his eyes there were still storm clouds.

We headed back to the inn, uncomfortable and silent. We entered through the front door and noticed immediately there was something amiss.

The drawing room had been ransacked.

My mouth fell open and Holmes cursed softly beneath his breath. "Thieves."

"Oh no," I murmured, carefully stepping through the mess. "Weren't our hosts complaining of a rash of robberies throughout the county, Holmes?" I asked and looked up, but he was already running up the stairs at full speed.

"Holmes!" I called, going up after him as quickly as I could manage.

It was then I saw that our room had suffered the same fate as the rest of the house. An unpleasant wave of shock washed over me and I noticed with a sudden burst of anger that my medical bag had been stolen. "Damn it!" I cried, pounding the part of the desk where my bag had been sitting not thirty minutes before. "Those items will take me weeks to replace."

But Holmes was oddly silent. He was staring at the top of the dresser, where his violin case sat.

Empty.

Instantly, I forgot the loss of my medical equipment. "Holmes," I breathed, horrified at the theft of his priceless possession. "They took the Stradivarius. My dear, I'm so sorry."

He continued to stare and I'd seen that look before, as the gears in his mind began to turn their great wheels. "So," he said finally, to no one in particular. "They want the attention of Sherlock Holmes." He looked around slowly, his sharp eyes taking in the wreckage of our room. "Now they have it."

"God help them," I said and I meant it.

xXx

continued in Chapter Four ...

_A/N: You guys are, as always, the best! Thanks for the reviews and comments, they make the typing much more enjoyable. :D_


	4. Chapter 4

The Country House (sequel to The Circular Room)

Chapter Four

xXx

*_Watson's POV_*

Once we calmed the inevitable chaos that followed the discovery by the owners of their ransacked lodgings, Holmes and I took off to the local constable's quarters, some two leagues away.

Riding there in a borrowed cart, I stole a glance or two at Holmes who was as stony-faced as he'd been during some of our most challenging cases back home in London. For myself, I had absolute faith that he'd discover the culprit - how was a simple country thief going to hide from the skills of Sherlock Holmes?

It was almost laughable. So it was with good humor I followed him into the constabulary and we were greeted by the officer in charge with great relief. "It's been a terrible annoyance this past month, sirs. He seems to know exactly when to strike." He looked at us hopefully; surely having Sherlock Holmes on the case was perhaps the luckiest break of his career.

Holmes made a dismissive noise before demanding a list of victims, some dozen names long. He glanced over it before handing it to me. "Pick the three closest, Watson."

"Just three?" I asked, licking my pencil and circling what looked promising.

"I only need one but it's always good to have confirmation," Holmes said. "When you get there, take notes of whatever they babble. Make sure to keep their attention."

I nodded and together, we headed to the first residence, a pleasant house situated on a sunny lane. The owners were surprised, then pleased when they heard who we were and why we were there. "I thought they'd given up," the lady of the house said. "Most upsetting."

Holmes glanced at me and I went to work holding the lady's attention by questioning her very closely as to the details of the robbery. Thus distracted, she didn't notice Holmes wandering through the house, picking up various items and examining them, showing special interest to the contents of her china closet as well as running his fingers through the dust of her mantel.

I had no idea what he was on about, but knowing him as well as I did, I was sure all his actions had a purpose. As for the lady's recollection, it was as ordinary a robbery as one could recount. She'd left for the market and came home to find the house rifled through and certain items missing. The thief had worked very quickly and it seemed to me that unless he'd made a mistake, we'd have a hard time finding him - the very uninteresting nature of his crime appeared to work in his favor rather than otherwise.

Fortunately, my opinion mattered little as I was not the master detective who suddenly appeared at my side. "Thank you," he said to the lady and pulled me up and away, barely leaving me time to tip my hat in her direction before I was led outside. "That was rude, Holmes."

He ignored my protest as we climbed into the cart. "One more, but already I don't like what I'm seeing here, Watson."

I touched my crop to the horse and we rattled down an uneven road. "It is rather dull," I said. "But the reward will be worth it."

Agitated, he shook his head. "There's more here than meets the eye, unfortunately, and none of it dull. I'll explain later."

Surprised, I looked at him but he was already lost in thought, his pipe clamped firmly between his lips. I turned my eyes back to the road and we continued onto the next house, where the story was very much the same as the first. Personally, I could see no great crime here, just an annoying one but Holmes' mouth was twisted with a look I knew well - he had hit upon something I'd missed and whatever it was, he was leery of it.

"Shall we go on to number three?" I asked, once we were back in our vehicle.

Holmes shook his head. "Back to the inn. Then we take a walk. Quickly, though. I have a feeling that time may be of the essence."

These words filled me with wonder, but as always, I did what Holmes asked. Mr. Reynolds was still in the midst of clearing up the mess of his drawing room and I explained to him that we were still working on the case, which made him chuckle in spite of his distress. "What? It's taken Mr. Holmes more than an hour to clear this up? Shocking!"

We smiled at his good humor and took our leave, walking down lanes I'd already come to know. Holmes puffed on his pipe, speaking around its lip. "Our thief is an interesting fellow. Or should I say, inept."

"How so?"

"The items taken are of less value then many of the things that were out in the open and more easily portable. He seems to have no idea how to go about stealing properly, which belies the fact that he keeps at it, as most thieves eventually learn what to take or give up entirely. He also is a sentimental fellow - at least two of the sterling picture frames were picked up, then put back, as if he were unwilling to deprive the family of a cherished possession."

"Perhaps he's merely stupid?" I suggested.

Holmes snorted. "A stupid man would not time his robberies so well, nor would he go so long without getting caught. No, Watson, I think what we have here is a man who is playing a role. Exactly what role that is, remains to be seen. Ah, here we are."

We found ourselves in front of the drab cottage I'd been so drawn to the previous day and evening. I raised an eyebrow at Holmes and he shook his head at me, mouthing the word '_wait_'. So I waited and it started again, the same sorrowful music I had trouble banishing from my mind since I'd first heard it.

Holmes listened for a few minutes, his face suddenly relaxed. "Sounds good," he said. "Very good."

"Yes, it's pretty, but what does this have to do with our case?" I asked.

He grinned at me. "Everything, my dear Watson. For as you might not realize, the violin you are listening to?" He paused, as behind us the music swelled. "Is mine."

My mouth fell open. I couldn't believe it and yet I had no reason not to. "But .. how ... are you sure?"

"A man knows his own instrument, surely. Our player is working on a new set of strings, at least to them," Holmes said, tilting his head to listen. He seemed so amazingly calm and not for the first time I was overcome with admiration for him and his great mind.

As well as annoyance for such a bold display from a common ruffian. "Then let us go in and take it back from the wretch," I said, my anger flaring. "I hope he still has my bag. If not, I'll thrash him."

Holmes put a hand on my arm and shook his head. "In a moment. It's not often I get to hear what it sounds like when another plays my violin. Fear not, we have him, Watson but I think you might not be so eager to display your infamous temper once we are inside. Besides, the wretch, as you call him, is not the one playing. It is but a child, so best to be calm and matter-of-fact about the situation, don't you think?"

Considering, I nodded. "Although it's a shame. What possesses people to do such things? Especially when they have ones who love and depend on them so greatly."

Holmes' mouth turned down into a tight line. He looked away from me, as if ashamed of his thoughts. "Sometimes that in itself is the problem," he replied cryptically, as the music faded, then ceased entirely. He sighed deeply and took my arm. "Let's go see our poor thief and get to the bottom of this mess, shall we?"

I'll admit to much confusion, but I accepted his arm and together we walked to the cottage door. I found myself wondering at Holmes' foreboding words, not to mention his sudden melancholy, which made him look as a man who'd had the wind taken out of him. I can't say that I always understood Holmes but I alone knew his moods and how deeply they affected him, even as he appeared to all the world little more than a clockwork automaton. His sensitivity was his undoing as well as his strength; it was there for me to pick up the pieces once the use for such emotions was gone. Already, I felt wary, but ready to be there if needed.

With a deep breath, I took up my cane, knocked at the door and together, we waited.

A moment later, the door creaked open. Inside the doorway stood a woman, with wet, red eyes and a very pale face. To my surprise, I could see she was trembling and in spite of my deep annoyance, my heart went out to her.

But it's what she said to my companion that truly shocked me, more than anything I'd encountered thus far.

"Welcome, Mr. Holmes," she said in a small, cracking voice. "We've been expecting you."

xXx

continued in Chapter Five

__

Yes, the thlot pickens! ;) Thank you for all the wonderful reviews, I enjoy them so much!


	5. Chapter 5

The Country House (Sequel to The Circular Room)

Chapter Five

xXx

_**Watson's POV**_

To say I was suspicious upon entering the cottage would have been an understatement. Automatically, my hand went to the service revolver I kept in my pocket, my fingers curling around its handle.

Holmes must have deduced the purpose of my movement and squeezed my elbow with a short shake of his head. The tiny home was dull, grimly lit by gaslamps in the late afternoon, the curtains pulled tightly shut, adding to my uneasiness. The lady of the house motioned for us to sit but I declined, choosing to remain standing behind Holmes as he took a chair.

I kept my hand on my gun. Just in case.

A man entered from the back of the room. He was thin, grim-faced fellow, his clothing disheveled and his demeanor of a person in extreme distress, not unlike the lady who I assumed was his wife. None of this boded well, but Holmes seemed to take the strange apparition in stride, motioning for him to sit. "I believe you have some possessions that do not belong to you, sir."

"Yes," the man replied, his sallow face as still as stone. "Penelope, come here and give Mr. Holmes his violin."

At his call, a tiny slip of a girl skittered forward from the shadows, hugging the Stradivarius in her thin, white arms. She looked haggard and miserable and my heart went out to her immediately, innocent creature she was. Trembling, she held out the violin to Holmes who made a show of examining it carefully.

"You've polished it," he said gently. "I see you appreciate its design."

"It's beautiful, sir," she whispered.

Holmes sniffed and sat back, reaching into his pocket for his pipe. He lit it and waved the violin away. "Hold onto it for a little while longer, my dear. I see it's safe in your care for the time being and if my guess is correct, I won't be playing music this evening." He glanced at the father through the tobacco smoke. "Isn't that right, sir? Perhaps you'd like to explain yourself now?"

The man stared at Holmes, his mouth shaking, as if trying to hold back tears. "I don't deserve your help, sir, but I have nowhere else to turn."

"You'll be turning yourself in," I interjected indignantly. "You are thief and will be prosecuted as such."

"Gently, Watson," Holmes admonished, squeezing my wrist. "Let's listen first. Go on, sir. Why have you been reduced to such pettiness? From the ledgers on your shelves to the rulers and counters gathering dust on your desk, I see you were an accountant by trade. An honorable, and if I'm not mistaken, well-paying profession. What has happened and how will my assistance change things?"

The man glanced at his wife, who nodded as if encouraging him to continue. "It all began, sirs, when a relative of mine who lived down the lane, Mr. Gregory, died. He was not a close relative, an uncle once-removed, and he was queer bird. For years we thought he was destitute and he played the part very well, living in what might be considered very reduced circumstances. Ragged clothing, barely a stick of furniture and would simply forgo food if my wife wouldn't bring him a supper at least a few times a week. We were the only relatives who paid any mind to him at all and we were glad to do it. But then ..."

He paused. Holmes nodded at him to continue.

"He passed away. It was then we discovered that he was not poor by any means, but had a hidden reserve of wealth in the amount of nearly fifty-thousand pounds."

My mouth dropped open at the sum. "My god ..."

"That was our reaction as well. His solicitor seemed quite sure that we would be recipients of a large part of this money - we had been the only ones to care if he lived or died - but we were all shocked to discover that the will had been either lost or destroyed, the solicitor's copy stolen as well. A search has been on-going for it, but in truth, at the moment I could care less for it." He inhaled shakily. "Alas, the word has gone around that I've come into some great inheritance and ... and ..."

The poor man burst into tears. His wife leaned on his shoulder and in a shrill voice finished for him. "Someone has taken our son for ransom. To gain this wealth they believe we are now hiding, like his uncle did. I swear to you, we have nothing and our poor Laurie! He's been gone for weeks now and if we go to the constable they have threatened ..." She found herself unable to finish the dreadful sentence.

Holmes held up his hand. "Thus, you've been paying partly with money gained from the stolen goods. But it's not been enough and I would be hard-pressed to assume any amount would be enough, ever, as long as you keep paying. They will keep him indefinitely, until the money stops flowing."

"But what can we do?" The father wept piteously. "My son. He's only seventeen. I would gladly give them all I owned but they only want what I do not have. This is why, Mr. Holmes, I took the terrible liberty of luring you here as I did, by stealing your things. The town was abuzz with the great detective's arrival and I thought that if anyone might be able to discreetly help us ..."

His face paler than usual, Holmes nodded. "You assumed correctly. Watson?"

During this recital my emotions tumbled between anger and shock, back to anger again at the plight of these poor people. "Yes, Holmes?"

"Your medical bag is on the table over there. I suggest you take it, as we might have need of it before the evening is over. As for you, Mr ..."

"Howard, sir. George Howard."

"Dr. Watson and I will be taking your place as deliverers of the current ransom. I believe that your son's kidnappers will not be a match for us. With luck, they have not been deceiving you as to his well-being. If he is alive, we will return him." Holmes rose and patted the daughter on her head. "Play us a tune for luck while we're gone, little one. A happy one, if you please."

Penelope nodded shyly. "Yes, sir."

It took little over an hour for Howard to explain to us the method and means of the ransom drops, along with the list of suspects that he believed might have been behind the kidnapping. Holmes took in the information with his usual easy air, nodding as if the instructions were little more than an afterthought. By the time he was done, it was nearly nightfall.

"Come, Watson," he called to me as I looked through my medical bag, making sure it was still stocked and it was. "Let's go pay Mr. Howard's admirers a visit, shall we?"

Pulling out my revolver, I double-checked my ammunition before closing the barrel with a click. "With all gladness."

With the ransom wrapped in plain brown paper, medical bag and gun in hand, Holmes and I headed to the far hills where a villain waited, not knowing the surprise that was about to come. My heart was nearly bursting with fury, not only for the innocent victims of this crime but for other, more personal, reasons.

Perhaps if I could get some of my own back, if not against Moriarty, then I would against those who employed the same cruel methods. And pay them back I would, with all the bottled anger in my soul. It might have been a terrible thought what I planned to do to these miscreants once I got a hold of them ...

But it filled me with more pleasure than I could possibly dare to express.

xXx

_** Holmes' POV **_

It's often been said that I am an emotionless creature, an image I encourage rather than otherwise. I've even led my closest friend to believe as much and it worked, at least for the first few months of our friendship.

But Watson is much cleverer than most people give him credit for. He sussed me and my heart out soon enough, realizing the hidden reserves of affection and anger I hold deep within. Affection for the good people of this world ... anger for the injustices perpetrated by the others.

Like all disguises, the appearance of a clockwork heart is a useful in my line of work, where the cruel creatures of this world would think nothing of holding my emotions against me. Only Moriarty - the worst of the worst - has seen through my ruse and it's the realization that my facade is fallible that has frightened me more than the work of any villain or psychopath I've come across so far in my strange career. The agony one feels at the reality of a lost and threatened loved one is horrendous, worse than any physical pain, worse than the fear of death itself.

Alas, I found this out the hard way.

If I could be taken in so, reduced to such base behavior, how could I possibly blame a simple man such as Mr. Howard for his actions? How could I not be sympathetic to his plight, as right at that moment, one of the Crown Jewels of Ireland was still burning its guilty presence against my chest in my jacket pocket, partly because I didn't trust to leave it at Baker Street, party from the self-punishment I craved hoping to reduce the sting of my guilty conscience.

It didn't appear to be working but that was of little consequence. What mattered was that I had turned into someone I'd spent my life attempting to bring to justice. But where was the justice for the misguided? For the persecuted? The world was not black and white as I'd so long assumed, but we poor humans indeed dwelt in shades of gray and I was not above my fellow man in this regard.

I never was.

It was with those sorrowful thoughts I trudged out into the dark hills with Watson at my side, righteous anger marring his usually handsome face. A courageous man, my doctor, as well as one who wasn't as rigid in his thinking as I, a quality that has often been invaluable in our work. His morals were set in wisdom, not in stone and for the first time I thought about unburdening my guilty heart to him, entirely, thinking it might not come back to haunt me as I so feared.

But not tonight. Tonight we had a young man to bring back to the heart of his family.

As well as an evil creature to bring straight into the unforgiving grip of justice.

xXx

to be continued ...

_A/N: Sorry for the long time between updates. Real life, it sucks! :( Thanks for reading, as always! Reviews are always welcome._


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